Daylight was streaming through a gap in the ceiling to floor draperies that hung over the windows. It was that slip of light that landed on Illya's eyes, creating a silent alarm in the Russian as he sorted through images and recollections of the previous day and evening, grasping at the last memory. Ah, the bullet and Deneauve...
He opened his eyes into mere slits, unwilling still to alert anyone who might be watching. He realized that he was naked beneath the sheet, and it was only covering him partially; one leg was bare, bent at the knee as though ready to propel him into the next dream. And he had dreamt of something...a girl...
Ethan Deneauve sat in a bergere chair upholstered in beige damask, dressed in trousers and a silk shirt of nearly the same color. The room was a pale celedon accented with white trim and the same damask as the chair's covering. Deneauve was himself a dark man, his hair and eyes as well as his complexion. He was fascinated by the young man in the bed, enthralled now with the sight of him. The bare body was slender and taut beneath a sheet covering only one leg and his groin, or most of it. The merest glimpse of white hair peeked at him, the hint of pale, pinkish genitals causing the Frenchman to consider reaching out to touch the painterly vision. He resisted the urge, remaining in his continuing state of celibate ardor; his desire for both women and men never realized in a self-imposed prison of devotion to some illusory higher calling. That was his perversion: the denial of self in a delusion of greater purpose. The man in the bed stirred, slitting his eyes to take in the room, deciding whether or not danger was imminent. He would find no danger, only the observant and veiled hunger of a man whose only indulgence was a moment such as this.
"Sergei, bon retour la vie...you are back among the living, I see". The eyes remained untouched as a smile creased the face of the Thrush host. It was not completely lascivious, but Illya remained guarded, nonetheless.
"Oui. Combien de temps ai-je dormi?" It seemed to the Russian that he had been sleeping for days. Then, becoming more alert, he was aware of the view he was providing. He drew his leg back under the sheet that he then raised up nearly to his armpits. How long had this man been watching him, he wondered.
"You, my friend, slept all night after your misfortune...the bullet' He paused to affect a look of concern, then continued... "Are you ready for something to eat? By my calculations, you have not had any food or drink for nearly 24 hours. That is much too long, and you will not heal well without sustenance, mon cher". Familiar bastard. Illya felt as though he had missed something, but he was hungry...famished actually. He hadn't eaten anything since the plane early yesterday...New York time.
"Yes, oui monsieur, I am very hungry. Perhaps there is a robe for me to wear..." The not too subtle request to cover his naked body was met with a smile.
"By all means, in the closet you will find that and more. Your clothing was ruined, but what has been provided for you will more than suffice, I believe. Take your pick. I will see you downstairs, then..." And with that he rose from the chair and gracefully moved to the door, turning to look back once at the white figure in the bed. He tipped his chin to Illya before exiting, the closing door drawing a sigh of relief from the UNCLE agent.
When Deneauve touched his foot to the stone floor in the entry, there was at that moment the ring of the bell at the front door. He hesitated as the thought occured to him that a servant would answer, then decided to open the door himself. To his surprise, a dark haired man, handsome and well dressed, stood in the open doorway. The visitor turned large brown eyes to stare with a mixture of amusement and self-possession at the Thrush; the effect both startling and pleasing. This morning held a myriad of delights, and now this.
"May I help you, monsieur?" Deneauve was at a disadvantage, his usual command slightly altered by the young man upstairs and now this debonaire gentleman at his door. Napoleon took his advantage and stated his purpose.
"You are Ethan Deneauve, I presume. My name is Willem Vanmeter. I am here from Central...to see you".
Shock and panic struck simultaneously as the Frenchman tried to recall the name, any recollection at all concerning this man. He wasn't a lackey or someone's grunt. This man exuded authority; perhaps more authority than his own, and he had no idea why he would be here, unless...
"Welcome to my home, then Monsieur Vanmeter. To what...to what do I owe this privilege, that you should come directly to me?" He tried to make it sound gracious, but internally there was a turmoil that was threatening to bubble over and spoil the facade of superiority with which he usually did business.
Napoleon Solo entered the foyer of the chateau with an ease and an elegance befitting his name. In this charade, he was a Thrush official whose rank would shatter the confidence of the man before him. Codes had been broken and false information placed within easy reach of Deneauve. When he made his phone call, a relay would connect him to Etienne who would in turn feed the necessary false information to underpin the UNCLE deception, thereby establishing rank and privilege, all of it in Napoleon's favor.
"Monsier, again I would ask for an explanation. It is not often that someone from Thrush Central deigns to visit us here, not in this location. Is it, perhaps, due to the courier we have here, and the documents that he carried?" Deneauve had no doubt this was indeed the catalyst for such action. He would call and confirm as soon as he was able, but in the meantime could take no chances that this man was not on a mission from the Hierarchy.
"Ah, Monsieur Deneauve, we are merely avoiding any possible mishaps with this situation. Your contact in America gave you erroneous information regarding Sergei...' Napoleon let a knowing smile invade his features, a calculated hint that there were secrets to be learned.
"He and his brother, their arrangement, are known to us, even though their secret is not generally revealed to the individual operatives with whom they do business. I am sure you understand, now that you have met him". The brown eyes were seductive to the unwitting Thrush, his sense of inclusiveness to this intrigue growing with appreciation for it's genius.
"Indeed. He is...beguiling, to say the least". At last, some validation for his own aesthetics; he was not alone in his estimation of the beautiful albino. He wondered what else Central had hidden from him, how deeply enigmatic the people above him might prove to be.
Napoleon, beneath the veneer of calm superiority, had a badgering curiosity concerning this man's fascination with his partner. It had not been his intent to steer the approach in this direction, if he were correctly discerning Deneauve's implications of interest. However, it seemed to portend a predilection towards the Russian, and that would be useful. Hopefully he wouldn't insist on keeping him here.
As the two men were discussing him, the individual in question emerged from his bedroom. The clothing he had discovered in the closet were expensive and, amazingly, a perfect fit. Fit was the primary descriptive to be used, because the jeans were so snug as to make sitting down marginally hazardous to his very important parts; the tee shirt was silk and clung so tightly to his torso that, due to the cool air that hung along the old walls and stone floors, his nipples protruded in an immodest manner, very unlike the reserved Russian. It was what there was to wear, however, and none of the other garments had a different effect. He chose the black, which was typical, and would at least minimize the disclosure of his most private attributes.
He was not sure about the host. He had appeared to genuinely like and admire Genevieve, so the episode upon awakening was confusing. Perhaps his preferences were broad minded, so to speak. In any event, Napoleon should be here soon, and their plan for departure well on it's way. He did require food first, though. He wasn't going anywhere on an empty stomach, and his was entirely empty by this hour of the day. He wondered where Genevieve was, whether or not he would find her at table. He hoped so, and wished to know that she was safe and unharmed. Deneauve may have appeared docile this morning, but he knew the man was capable of cruelties and harshness; he hoped the girl had not been subjected to either.
Deneauve and Napoleon were still conversing in the foyer, not having quite arrived at the main room, when Illya descended the stairs. The Frenchman's eyes were immediately diverted to the albino man, letting the words of a sentence trail off as his eyes fastened on his guest. Clad in black, the white hair catching a glint of light through a palladian window over the stairwell, even Napoleon caught his breath for a moment before realizing it was indeed his friend. No one could pull of a disguise better than Illya, he thought. Only, this wasn't entirely a disguise.
"You look recovered, Sergei. How is the arm?" Deneauve was anxious to escort the young Russian to the dining room; he knew he needed to eat, had gone far too long without food.
"I feel much rested, thank you. Hello Willem. Have you come to straighten this out?" The familiar greeting shocked Deneauve as he realized that these two men were acquainted. He was on the outside of something that might prove a danger to him and his career. How had he been so stupid as to doubt Sergei? He had nothing to do now save apologies and excuses for his miscalculation. He needed to make that phone call...
"Gentlemen, since you seem to be acquainted, perhaps you will entertain yourselves...please, go into the dining room and enjoy the offerings. I have a phone call that is a necessary nuisance. I am certain you understand..." Illya and Napoleon nodded their heads, knowing the purpose of the phone call and confident that Etienne would handle it flawlessly. They indicated that their host should go, as they headed for the dining room and Illya's much awaited meal.